


A Day in the Life of...

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [7]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: Magdalene makes a few changes; Davy's expertise comes in handy; Peter turns dancing instructor; Micky gets in trouble with everyone over an ill-timed remark.





	A Day in the Life of...

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1998.

Isabel didn't think twice before opening the door to the Pad and walking in unannounced as usual despite the fact that it was only 8:30 AM. Peter had called, asking to borrow some sugar since they were out and it was his turn to make breakfast; she assumed that meant they--all of them--were up and dressed and presentable to any guests, expected or not.

She had been wrong.

No sooner had she closed the door behind her, spotted Peter bending over the oven with his head practically inside the ancient appliance and started to let him know she was there when the bathroom door swung open.

"Hey, Peter!" Mike called, stepping out into the living room, keeping one hand curled around the edge of the door. "Do we have any more razor blades?"

Peter jerked upright, nearly banging his head on the oven as he scrunched up his face, thinking. "Top shelf on the left," he called back.

"Thanks, man." And with that, Mike disappeared into the bathroom again without even noticing Isabel was there at all.

But _she_ had noticed.

Oh, yes, she had.

She had noticed that he was clad in nothing but a pair of thin, black cotton boxer shorts. She had noticed that he was still damp from the shower. That his hair was tousled, wet tendrils clinging to his neck and cheeks. That he still sported overnight beard stubble that made her ache to nuzzle his chin. That there were still tiny rivulets of water running down his chest and arms, gleaming in the light.

Her lungs collapsed; her throat closed; her legs felt on the verge of giving out beneath her. If she hadn't been frozen in place, she would've dashed across the room, thrown open the bathroom door, grabbed him and--and--

And she didn't know what!

No, that wasn't true. She _did_ know what. But they hadn't done "what." They hadn't even _talked_ about doing "what." Her mind still wasn't certain she was _ready_ to do "what" yet.

Her _body_ , on the other hand, was quite secure in its decision that it wanted to do "what" right _now_.

"Hi, Isabel!"

Peter's cheerful greeting made her nearly jump out of her skin; she'd been so intent on Mike--and her reactions to him--that she hadn't even heard Peter approach. Now he stood next to her, smiling and looking at her expectantly. She stared back at him, her eyes wide and blank until it gradually seeped into her foggy brain that he was patiently waiting for her to hand over the sugar she'd brought for him.

"Hi," she said weakly, holding out the container. "Here you go. Is this enough?"

"Oh, yes," he assured her, taking the container and heading back for the kitchen. "Hey, you want to stay for breakfast? We've got plenty."

"No...no...I couldn't." No, she definitely couldn't. Not after what she'd seen. Not after how it had made her react.

"Well, you want me to tell Mike you're here at least?" he offered helpfully. "He's probably dressed by now."

Isabel heard the tiny strangled noise that originated deep in her throat, but she was powerless to hold it back. "No--no--no, that's okay!" she exclaimed. "I--I'll see him later." She'd already seen about as much of him as her nerves could handle for one morning.

With that, she waved, turned and practically ran out the door, beating a hasty retreat back to her own place. Once there, she slammed the door shut and hurried to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. Hopefully that would settled her frazzled nerves.

Magdalene glanced up at her over the steaming cup of tea poised at her lips, her dark green eyes curious as she took in her room-mate's flustered appearance.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Isabel didn't reply until she'd hastily gulped half the mug she'd poured herself; only then did she move to the couch and sit down on one end, opposite Magdalene.

"No," she replied, pleased with how deceptively calm she sounded even to herself. "I am not okay."

"What happened?" Magdalene regarded her with growing concern, setting her cup aside on the coffeetable and facing Isabel directly. 

Isabel paused dramatically, then answered, her voice low. "I saw Mike in boxer shorts."

Magdalene looked at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable, and then she rolled her eyes. "Is _that_ all?" she snorted. "So?"

"So?" she echoed. " _So_? Is that all you can say? So?"

"Oh, come on, Isabel," Magdalene replied in an infinitely reasonable tone. "It's not like you saw him _naked_ or anything--"

"Don't even say that..." Isabel said faintly, dropping her head in her hands. "I don't need the imagery..."

"So what's the big deal?" the other girl continued as if she hadn't even spoken. "It's no different from a bathing suit, and you've seen him in one of those countless times, right?"

It was Isabel's turn to give Magdalene a long, steady look.

"Yes, there _is_ a difference," she replied. "A _big_ difference. A bathing suit is--is _safe_ , y'know? It's like socially acceptable public clothing. But _this_..." she paused, then added, "Well, it would be like if he walked in here and saw me in _my_ underwear. It covers the same thing just as thoroughly as my bikini, but the _context_ is different. You dig?"

"I think so..." Magdalene answered slowly.

"Besides," Isabel continued, her eyes taking on a faraway look again. "They were riding lower on his hips than a bathing suit..." 

She sighed, and Magdalene shook her head again. "Oh, good grief," she snorted. "If you're going to be swoony all day, I'm leaving." 

"No, no..." she replied with a smile. "I'll be fine...If I can ever get the picture of that tummy fuzz out of my head. Oh, man!" She keeled over backwards on the couch, grabbed a pillow and held it over her face as she tried to empty her mind of all such naughty thoughts, knowing it wasn't going to help matters in the slightest to keep replaying the memory over and over again--no matter how much _fun_ it might be.

"Tummy fuzz?" Magdalene asked, a puzzled note in her voice. "What's that?"

Isabel removed the pillow long enough to raise an eyebrow at her. "You don't _know_?" she replied, incredulous at the very idea. 

"No." The other girl shook her head solemnly.

"Oh, sure you do!" she scoffed. "You've seen guys on the beach--"

"I've never been to the beach," Magdalene said matter-of-factly, and Isabel gaped at her, shocked to the core.

"B-but you've lived here almost three weeks! How could you have not gone to the beach?"

"Well, for one thing, I've been busy job hunting," she replied pragmatically. "For another, I haven't really wanted to because I don't have a bathing suit and I don't know how to swim."

"You don't need to swim to enjoy the beach," Isabel informed her. "And as far as a bathing suit...Here, stand up."

Isabel stood up herself, gesturing to Magdalene to follow her example, which she reluctantly did, and Isabel gazed up at her, realizing for the first time that her room-mate had to be at least a good eight to ten inches taller than she was.

"Well, borrowing one of mine is out of the question," she said with a teasing grin. "But there _are_ alternatives..."

~*~*~ 

Less then twenty minutes later, the girls were stretched out on two of Isabel's beach towels, lounging on the sand well out of reach of the rushing tide. Isabel had sprawled on her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows as she watched Magdalene, who was taking in the new scene with keen interest. Isabel was wearing her black bikini as usual, but Magdalene's beachwear was a little different. Since she didn't own a suit of her own and her wardrobe contained skirts rather than pants, Isabel had called next door and coaxed Peter--who was nearest to Magdalene in height--into letting her borrow an old tee shirt and a pair of shorts. They were a little tight in places and loose in others, but the ensemble was serviceable enough for the day, and Isabel privately determined to take her room-mate shopping for a suit of her own at the first opportunity.

The warm sun beat down on them, and Isabel could already feel perspiration rolling down her back, but the breeze was cool, and she would keep a close eye on Magdalene, who was fair-skinned and likely to burn if they weren't careful. They were more or less alone at the moment; the nearest people were perhaps a quarter of a mile down the beach, but Magdalene seemed entranced by the scenery nonetheless. Overhead, the gulls squawked and dove at crabs and kelp; sandpipers skittered along the edge of the waves, and the roar of the ocean provided a soothing background noise as they relaxed in the heat of the sun.

"How do you like it so far?" Isabel asked.

Magdalene, who was sitting facing the ocean and leaning back on her hands, glanced over at her and smiled. "Very nice," she replied. "I wish I'd come out here with you guys before, but..."

"But what?"

She gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. "But I don't feel like I fit in."

Isabel stared at her, surprised at the admission. " _Why_?" she asked, genuinely astonished. She'd tried to include Magdalene, to make her feel as welcome as possible, but apparently she hadn't done enough. "Is it something we've done? Something we've said? Are we making you feel like an outsider?"

Magdalene gave an unlady-like snort of derision. "Isabel, I _am_ an outsider," she replied without rancor or accusation. "Look at me--I don't fit in with you guys--"

"Nonsense," Isabel rejoined sharply. "Look at _us_. A curly-top lunatic, a smart-mouthed Texan, a sweetheart who's too naive for his own good, a short showman from Manchester and an equally short would-be writer. A most unlikely combination, don't you think? Why _wouldn't_ you fit in with our menagerie?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "You just seem so close. I feel like an intruder."

"We seem close because we _are_ close, each of us in different ways, but that doesn't mean we don't have room for someone else," Isabel said gently. "The guys were a tight-knit group before I came along; none of them had had serious girlfriends, and I felt like I was barging into a men-only club for a long time. But now they've accepted me--and they'll accept you too if you let them."

There was no response to that, so she decided to let it go for the moment and let Magdalene absorb it on her own. With a contented sigh, she folded her arms and rested her chin on them, closing her eyes as she gave in to the drowsiness she always felt when lying in the sun, a trait that prompted Mike to tease her, calling her a "lizard."

"Isabel..." Magdalene's tone was hesitant as if she weren't certain of what she was about to say next. "May I ask you something?" 

"Sure," she replied sleepily, not opening her eyes. "What is it?" 

There was another long pause, and then, "I don't want to sound nosy or anything, but where did Mike learn to dance like that?"

Isabel's eyes flew open as she stared straight ahead, replaying that last bit to make sure she had indeed heard what she thought she heard.

"I wasn't spying," Magdalene added hastily. "I happened to come downstairs the other day and saw you, but I went back up so I wouldn't interrupt."

"Well, don't tell _Mike_ you saw us," she replied, finding her voice at last. "He'd kill you for it."

Beside her, Magdalene laughed quietly, one of the few times Isabel had heard that sound from her. "I figured as much. I don't get it, though. He won't dance at parties or clubs, and you all give him grief for it, but he _can_ dance, so what's up?"

"He won't dance in public because he thinks he'll look awkward trying to do the faster dances that are so popular now," Isabel explained, raising up on her elbows again so she could look at Magdalene. "Mr. Perfectionist doesn't want to look foolish."

"That doesn't explain the other day, though."

"When he was growing up, his Aunt Kate made her two daughters take ballroom dancing lessons, and she coerced _him_ into being their practice partner at home, so he's had lots of practice, and the slower pace feels more comfortable for him."

"Oh...That makes sense."

Just then, a familiar whoop carried to them on the sea breeze, and both of them swiveled to look in the direction of the Pad, alerted to a new arrival on the beach: Micky, pelting towards the surf, a surfboard cradled in his arms. He stopped short when he noticed them, grinning cheerfully as he approached their little towel oasis, dropping the surfboard and falling to his knees in the sand next to Isabel. 

"Hey!" he greeted them. "What's up, ladies?"

"Hey, Mick." Isabel smiled in return as she raised herself up to sit cross-legged on her towel. "I'm just initiating Magdalene to the beach. Can you believe this is the first time she's been out here?" 

"You must be _joking_!" he exclaimed, turning a wide-eyed gaze on Magdalene, who blushed slightly under the unexpected scrutiny. "Well, shoot, Mags--you've been missing out. You wanna come swimming with me? Can't go to the beach without swimming." 

"I-I don't know how," she murmured shyly, lowering her lashes demurely.

"Oh, well, I can teach you," he replied, obviously brimming over with confidence. 

"Sure..." she replied faintly, and Isabel jumped in to rescue her. 

"But not until we get her a swimsuit," she added. "Then you can try to drown her all you want."

"Hey!" He drew himself up indignantly. "I'll be a good teacher. Mags won't have to worry about a thing."

Isabel shot an amused glance at Magdalene to see how she was taking the idea, but Mags didn't even seem to be paying attention--not to his _words_ anyway. Instead, her gaze was directed at his midsection, and she was staring at him with a bright intensity in her eyes as if she were enraptured by what she saw. 

"Oh, I'm sure," Isabel replied as he scrambled to his feet and picked up his surfboard again. "Just don't let her get eaten by any sharks, all right? I've kinda gotten used to having her around."

Micky's giggles lingered even after he had already headed off to the ocean, and Magdalene followed him with her eyes the entire way. 

"So that's tummy fuzz..." she said at last, her voice low and breathy.

"Yep, that's it," Isabel affirmed, hiding her smile behind her fingers. 

"Kind of makes your throat close up, doesn't it?"

"Among other things," she said, laughing quietly. "Now you understand _my_ reaction."

"Oh, yeah..."

Magdalene was still watching him even though he was so far out that he was barely visible to the eye any longer, and Isabel felt a sudden rush of compassion for the other girl. 

"You're really hung up on him, aren't you?" she asked softly, and finally Magdalene tore her gaze away from him and focused on Isabel, nodding slightly, her cheeks staining pink at the admission.

Isabel considered for a moment, narrowing her eyes as she peered at Magdalene, mentally assessing her and realizing for the first time that she had the potential to be a very pretty girl with a few minor adjustments. Reaching out, she removed Mags' glasses, ignoring her protest. 

"Do you really need these?" she asked, examining her carefully, noticing her deep green eyes, her fair smooth skin, her fine-boned features. Without the glasses weighing her down, she was delicately pretty--or she would be if...

"No, just for reading, really, but it's easier to keep them on..." 

"From now on, you're not going to wear them unless you _are_ reading," Isabel commanded firmly. "Now take down your hair." 

"What--?"

"No, wait--don't do it here," Isabel reversed her decision as she jumped to her feet and began gathering up their things. "Come on, we're going home."

"Home--? But we just got here. Why--?"

"We're going to make a few changes. Now come on!" she said, smiling with barely supressed glee. Judging from the potential she saw in Miss Magdalene Bennett, she felt certain she could help the girl catch Micky's eye--and hopefully win his heart as well. 

~*~*~ 

"Davy, I need your help," Isabel said without preamble as soon as he said, "Ello."

"What's up?" he asked, his voice laden with curiosity.

"I need you to come over here and give me your opinion on Magdalene."

"Oh, well, I can give you _that_ right now!" he exclaimed. "No need for me to go over there to do it."

"No, no, no," she corrected quickly. "We're--making some changes. You know what guys like in a girl. I need you to tell me if I'm right about her potential to be a knock-out."

"We _are_ talking about the same Magdalene, right?" he asked. "Plain girl? No sense of style? Lives with you?"

"That's the one," she chuckled softly at his dubious tone. "Look, just come over for a minute and see for yourself. If you don't think she's got any potential, I'll give up now. But if she does, I want _you_ to help with the transformation. Deal?"

"All right," he agreed reluctantly. "Deal."

Moments later, there came a knock on her front door, and when she opened it, Davy stood outside, his arms folded across his chest, his expression clearly revealing his skepticism.

"Is this a joke?" he asked as he followed her into the living room, and she threw an exasperated look over her shoulder at him. 

"No, I'm completely serious," she replied earnestly. "I think you'll be surprised at the difference couple of changes can make. Mags!" she yelled, cupping her hand around her mouth so the sound would carry, and almost immediately, the girl in question appeared at the top of the steps.

She was still dressed in Peter's shirt and shorts which served to show that she had a slender, almost boyish build--exactly the tall, willowy body type that fashions seemed made for lately, Isabel thought with more than a little chagrin, glancing down at her own short, curvy figure. Mags' glasses were gone--banished until needed--and her hair was down, revealing a mass of auburn curls that tumbled half-way down her back. Without the bun detracting from her looks, her fine-boned features seemed delicate rather than severe now, and the flame of her hair deepened the green of her eyes.

Beside Isabel, Davy's jaw unhinged and hit the floor. His wide brown eyes went wider--and then narrowed. Already his mind was at work, and that's just what Isabel wanted.

"Well?" she asked unnecessarily.

"Surprised isn't the word," he replied honestly, still taking in Mags' altered appearance. "Try shocked, luv. I never would have guessed her for the same girl!"

"So you'll help us?"

Meanwhile, Magdalene had reached the foot of the steps, and now she watched as Davy circled her and "hhm"ed under his breath. She arched one eyebrow at Isabel, her lips quirking in somethat that wasn't quite a smile.

"I feel like the prize cow at the market," she remarked. "Do I pass inspection?"

"Mini skirt," Davy announced with a decisive nod as he moved to stand next to Isabel again.

The two of them leaned towards each other, Davy stroking his chin as they regarded Magdalene speculatively.

"You think so?" Isabel asked, and Davy looked Magdalene up and down thoroughly one more time.

"She's got legs up to her shoulders, she has," he replied. "She needs a mini skirt to show them off."

"Colors?"

"I'd say dark green, dark blue...If you _really_ want to shake Micky up, go for red," he added, and both Isabel and Magdalene stared at him, visibly astonished.

"How--how did you know--?" Mags stammered, looking as flustered and rattled as either of them had ever seen her.

"Oh, well, it's obvious, innit?" he replied nonchalantly. "I've been in love a few times meself. I know the signs when I see them." 

"A _few_ times...?" Isabel tossed him a mischievous smile, and he wagged an admonishing finger at her.

"Not a word from you, or I won't elp with your little project," he warned, and she schooled her features into a properly penitant expression.

~*~*~ 

Isabel sorted through a rack of dresses, dismissing most as unsuitable--wrong color, wrong style--but occasionally one caught her eye, and she pulled it out for Davy to accept or reject. Meanwhile, Mags stood off to one side, watching silently as they consulted over her new wardrobe, having been banished once Isabel realized that everytime she asked Mags her opinion, the other girl invariably chose the drabbest, dullest garment on the rack.

"Too low-cut," Davy waved a dismissive hand at the dress Isabel had chosen for him to see.

"That's actually a problem?" Isabel raised a questioning eyebrow at him, a teasing smile curving her lips.

"Well, for one thing, she's smaller chested than _you_ are--" he began by way of explanation.

"Thanks," she grumbled, shooting him an annoyed look.

"And for another," he continued as if she hadn't spoken, "guys with any taste prefer mystery. It gets our imaginations working," he added with a mischievous grin.

"That's really more information than I wanted," she replied dryly, and he laughed, then shrugged nonchalantly.

"Ey, you _asked_!"

After several minutes of wrangling, they reached an agreement, and Magdalene ended up with an armload of clothes with the firm command to go try everything on and model them for her audience of two.

"Do I _have_ to?" she protested, gazing wide-eyed at the plethora of choices now weighing down her arms. "I don't need this much--I've got an entire closet full of clothes--"

"Yeah, clothes that make you look like a frumpy old maid," Davy reminded her.

"I _am_ a frumpy old maid," she retorted.

"Not anymore," he countered. " _You_ are going to go to our gig tonight at the Vincent Van Gogh-Gogh and tear the top right off Micky's head."

"Just think of yourself as Cinderella, and _we're_ the fairy godmothers--er--godparents," she corrected after Davy shot her a warning look.

"Besides, you won't end up taking all those 'ome," he added.

"Yep, there'll be several things that won't look as good on as we thought, so just get in there and start changing!" Isabel commanded, pointing inexorably at the nearest dressing room.

All but dragging her feet as she went, Magdalene followed the order, grumbling under her breath as she did. Davy and Isabel found two chairs and pulled them up near a three-sided mirror next to the dressing rooms and settled back to wait.

And soon the parade began; Magdalene began with the dresses, coming out first in a long-sleeved mini-dress with a dark blue background and a hunter green and burgundy paisley pattern. She trudged to stand in front of the mirror, staring at herself and scowling.

"I look _stupid_ ," she announced, folding her arms across her chest.

"You do _not_ ," Davy argued, jumping to his feet and moving to stand next to her. "Get the thought of the old Magdalene out of your mind and just look at yourself for once," he instructed. "What d'you see?"

She was silent, staring at herself for a moment before she dropped her gze to the floor, and then slowly, she replied, "I see a plain, gawky girl with skinny bird legs showing because of a too-short skirt and who looks even more washed out than usual because of the dark blue, and who is overwhelmed by that big paisley print."

Davy closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "You _really_ need to lighten up on yourself, girl," he said, his voice laden with compassion. "Now then, you want to know what _I_ see?"

Reluctantly, Magdalene lifted her eyes to meet his in the mirror, reading only kindness and sympathy there. Wordlessly, she nodded, and he smiled warmly at her.

"Speaking as a guy who knows a little bit on the subject of feminine beauty--" Behind them, Isabel smothered a giggle, and he tossed a quelling glance at her over his shoulder. "As I was saying," he continued sternly, "speaking as something of an expert, I can honestly say you've got what it takes to get a guy's attention."

"I do?" The question was almost inaudible, and from her expression, it was plain to see that she scarecly dared to believe what she was hearing was true.

"Too right you do!" he affirmed enthusiastically. "Trust me--guys won't think you've got skinny bird legs. They'll be too busy whistling! And you're not washed-out. Fair skin makes guys want to touch it just to see if it's as smooth as it looks."

"Really?"

Magdalene's eyes had grown huge and shimmery, and her lower lip trembled as if she were on the verge of tears. Isabel watching with growing sympathy; from all appearances, these were the first kind words Magdalene had ever received about her appearance. No wonder she thought she was plain! No wonder she didn't know how to take a compliment!

"Yeah, really, just don't let out that I told you, all right? I'm giving away trade secrets," he added, tipping her a charming wink. 

She looked at herself in the mirror again, seeming to study herself critically, and then she straightened her shoulders and slowly--very slowly--beginning to smile.

"Maybe you're right," she said softly. "Maybe Magdalene was a plain, dowdy girl...but Mags doesn't have to be."

"That's the spirit!" Davy patted her shoulder, smiling his approval, then he steered her back to the changing room. "Now let's see some more, all right?"

"You never cease to amaze me, Mr. Jones," she told him quietly as soon as Magdalene was out of sight and he had returned to sit next to her, more grateful than she could possibly express that he appeared so willing to help her new friend break out of her shell.

"Ey, what can I say?" He grinned and spread his hands. "I'm a pretty amazing guy."

She gave a derisive snort and swatted his arm, then settled back to wait for Magdalene's reappearance.

Mags went through the selection of dresses quickly, relying on Isabel and Davy's opinions on which ones to keep and which ones to discard, but by the time she reached the more casual, everyday clothes, she began to venture her own opinion, revealing a natural taste for brighter colors and wilder prints than Isabel imagined possible from her.

"If that's what you like," Isabel finally asked, "then why've you been wearing those dull-as-dirt suits all this time?"

Mags, who was standing in front of the mirror and smiling slightly as she studied her latest ensemble--a pair of tight white pants and a long-sleeved jade green blouse with an intricate lighter green swirled pattern.

"Because that's what I've always been told I should wear," she answered quietly. "I thought I was too plain to wear anything bright and colorful."

"Nonsense!" Davy barked, his brows snapping together in a frown. "You can wear anything you like! It's those shapeless suits and drab colors that make you look plain."

Mags retreated to the dressing room once more, and Davy turned to Isabel, his expression thoughtful as if his mental wheels were turning.

"You've got something on your mind," she said. "What is it?"

"Tonight's the night we're going to debut the new Mags, right?" 

"Right..."

"Well, the way _I_ see it, we need to find something extra-special," he continued, a wide grin spreading across his face as he spoke. "Something that'll really blow Micky away and get his attention, y'know?"

"Keep talking..." Isabel felt an answering smile of her own blooming on her lips. Oh, she'd definitely done the right thing by bringing Davy in as a consultant on this project!

"Now, what we've got so far is great, but we need a real show-stopper--and I think I saw it in the window when we came in," he concluded with a decisive nod.

Isabel twisted in her seat, trying to glimpse the window display at the front of the store. "Are you talking about what I _think_ you're talking about?"

"Second on the right."

With a delighted squeal, she jumped up and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight as she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

"Davy, you're a _genius_!" she exclaimed.

He laughed as he returned her embrace, his dark brown eyes twinkling with mirth. "Oh, isn't that just my luck?" he teased. "Finally a girl who sees beyond my andsome face and captivating charm, and she's taken!"

~*~*~ 

"No, no," Peter explained, his tone infinitely patient and kind. "You need to loosen up your hips more. You're jerking a little too much." 

From her vantage point on the couch, Isabel smothered a giggle behind her hands, valiently restraining herself from commenting on _that_ one. After she, Mags and Davy had lugged home the multitudinous bags from their successful shopping spree, Isabel had called Peter and asked him to come over and give Mags some dancing lessons so she'd be prepared for that night. 

He'd readily agreed, and he, like Davy, had appeared shocked at the transformation in Isabel's room-mate. Mags was wearing one of her new outfits--tight jeans and a white peasant blouse with a lace-up V neck--and Peter had frozen in his tracks when he walked in and saw her, his eyes growing wide. Then one of his bedimpled grins bloomed on his lips, lighting up his entire face. 

"Wow, Mags, you look _groovy_!" he enthused, earning a shy smile from their in-house Cinderella. 

The two of them had been practicing for the better part of an hour; Isabel had turned the radio on full blast, and Peter used whatever came on to teach her what he called "some of his better moves." At the moment, a hit from a few years back was playing--"That Thing You Do"--and Peter was trying to get her to loosen up some. 

"Maybe I'll just be a wallflower with Mike," Mags grumbled as she watched Peter sway back and forth and tried to copy his movements. But every line in her body radiated tension, and that was impeding her progress. 

"Not if you want to get _Micky's_ attention," Peter replied disingenuously. "He loves to dance." 

Mags wheeled around to face him, her lower jaw scraping the floor. " _You_ figured it out too?" she demanded. 

"Well, yeah..." he admitted with a shrug. "It's pretty obvious you're hung up on him." 

"Oh, _great_!" she exclaimed, throwing both hands in the air. "What about Mike? Has _he_ noticed too?" 

As one, Peter and Isabel nodded solemnly. 

"He told me the other day he hoped you two _do_ get together so maybe you'd have a calming influence on Micky," Isabel supplied helpfully. 

"Is there anyone who _doesn't_ know?" Mags fixed them both with a dark glare. 

"Micky," they chorused in unison. 

"Great." 

Suddenly, she stalked over to the couch and threw herself down beside Isabel, scowling. "This is pointless. I can't dance, and even if I could, he won't notice me. I'm probably not even his type." 

"Yes, you are," Peter assured her quickly, moving over to sit next to her. "He likes girls with long, pretty legs." 

Isabel sat up straight and leaned forward so she could see around Mags. "How do _you_ know?" she teased, a grin tugging the corners of her mouth. "Do you guys sit around and talk about this kind of thing?"

"Oh, sure." He smiled and nodded. "All the time." 

Both Isa and Mags fixed him with identical "you must be _joking_ " looks. 

"If Robert Michael Nesmith has said _one word_ about me, he's a dead man," Isabel growled, her brows snapping together and her lips thinning into a dangerous line. 

"No, no, no!" he hastened to reassure her, holding up both hands. "He never talks about _you_."

"Uh-huh." Mags turned to Isabel and touched her fingers to the end of her nose, then pulled them away in a "Pinocchio's nose is growing" gesture, making Isabel giggle despite her momentary irritation.

"I'm _serious_!" he insisted, his expression open and earnest. "All he'll tell us about is stuff from the past."

"Oh, really?" Isabel perked up, visibly interested. "Like what?" 

"I couldn't tell you that." Peter shook his head somberly. "That would be betraying a confidence." 

"Oh, come on--just one little juicy tidbit!" she pleaded, turning her best doe-eyed look on him. 

He appeared to consider the matter for a moment, then he informed her gravely, "I know you and Mike aren't intimate yet, but if you ever are, don't let him anywhere near any doughnuts." 

And that's all he would say despite her best wheedling and cajoling efforts. Instead, he grasped Mags' hand and hauled her to her feet once more, dragging her onto the make-shift dance floor as he began their lessons again. 

"So what else does Micky like in a girl aside from long legs?" Mags asked as Peter put both hands on her hips, trying to show her what he meant by "loosening up." 

"A sense of humor," he answered promptly. "Someone who knows how to have fun." 

"Oh." She stopped moving suddenly, appearing crest-fallen, and Peter immediately wrapped his arms around her from behind in a comforting bear hug.

"Don't worry, Mags," he said, givng her a little extra squeeze. "You've changed since you've been here," he said, and Isabel stared at him surprised by his insight. She thought she'd been the only one to notice Mags' slow-but-steady unflowering, but apparently she'd been wrong. "You're not as solemn anymore," he continued, "and you _do_ have a sense of humor when you're not scared to show it." He paused, then added, "And you don't have to be scared with us. We like you." 

"Really?" It was a barely audible whisper. Peter couldn't see the tears that shimmered in Mags' eyes, but Isabel could, and her heart went out to the other girl. She had no idea what had happened to cause Mags' low self-esteem, but something--or some _one_ \--had obviously taught her that she wasn't the type other people would accept as a friend. 

"Yeah, really," Peter replied, smiling warmly. "Even if you and Micky don't get together, you'll still be one of us as long as you want to hang around." 

Without warning, Mags burst into tears, whirled around and flung her arms around Peter's neck, nearly strangling him as she wailed out incoherant words of thanks and joy. 

Peter threw Isabel a bewildered look over Mags' shoulder. 

"Is it something I said?" 

~*~*~ 

Mags could already hear the familiar strains of "The Girl I Knew From Somewhere" as she and Isabel entered the club, and she felt a shivery tingle run up her spine at the mere sound of Micky's voice; Isabel had insisted on arriving late, making sure they walked through the door _after_ the guys had already begun their first set.

"We're going to use the element of mystery and surprise to our advantage," she had explained before they left the house. "If we're there before they go on-stage, then we'll have to go over to their table, and Micky will see you right away, but if we get there late, you can get his attention on the dance floor."

"What if he doesn't even notice?" Mags had asked, raisng a sceptical eyebrow.

"He'll notice," she had replied confidently, her smile turning smug as she gave Mags a final once-over.

So now Mags lingered in the doorway as Isabel surveyed the dance floor, scoping out the best spot to position themselves; her stomach felt as if an entire flock of butterflies had taken up residence there, and despite her friend's assurances, she wasn't certain she would capture Micky's attention at all, much less kindle the slightest amount of interest.

"Don't let him see your face," Isabel instructed as she grasped Mags' hand and led her towards the writhing, teeming throng of dancers. "Make sure you stay in his line of sight for a minute--and then disappear again. Make him look for you."

"How can you be so sure he will?" she hissed, leaning down so Isabel could hear her, but she merely gave Mags an admonishing look in response.

Micky's voice rang out loud and clear and soulful as he sang--"someone somewhere did me the same wrong"--and against orders, against her own will even, she found herself seeking him out, her eyes greedy for the sight of his expressive face. He always poured his heart into the music, making her feel it as he must feel it himself as he sang, and she drank every nuance of expression. Suddenly, Isabel's fingers squeezed hers tightly, and, remembering what she'd been instructed to do, she reluctantly dragged her gaze away from him and looked down at Isabel instead.

"Over here," the smaller girl directed, pointing to a position close enough to the bandstand for the guys--all of them--to spot them easily enough, but far enough away that it would be easy to blend in with the crowd when necessary.

A glance at the guys showed that at least one of them had noticed their arrival; she glanced up just in time to see Mike wink at Isabel and to see the crimson rushing into her friend's cheeks. For a moment she forgot her own nervousness as she remembered their conversation that morning, realizing this was the first time Izzy had seen Mike since _seeing_ him that morning, and she couldn't hold back the giggle that rose in her throat.

"I know what you're thinking about!" she teased, and Izzy tore her eyes away from his midsection long enough to give her friend a startled glance.

"What--? Oh!" And the scarlet flush deepened. "I'm trying _not_ to," she mumbled, and Mags laughed outright.

"Good luck," she replied, earning a dark glare for her pains.

"Okay," Izzy said, releasing Mags' hand when they were in place--and deliberately changing the subject. "Just try to relax and have a good time."

"Easy for you to say," Mags grumbled.

"I know," she replied, and her smile was sympathetic. "But if this works..."

If it worked, Mags would finally have the attention--and perhaps affection--of the man for whom she had fallen so hard.

Steeling her resolve, she forced a watery smile, pausing as the song ended and Mike took a moment to re-tune, obviously not satisfied with the sound he was getting. Then Micky counted off, and they launched into "Steppin' Stone," the beat catching fire in the crowd. 

The crowd responded to the music; the musicians responded to the crowd, growing louder and more enthusiastic. Taking a deep breath and forcing her reluctant limbs into action, Mags began to dance.

~*~*~ 

From his vantage point on the bandstand, Micky scanned the crowd with a disinterested eye, scoping out the response and pleased with what he saw. More people were up dancing than sitting down, and that was always a good sign. He let his gaze wander idly across the dance floor, checking to see if there was anybody he knew out there.

"You're usin all the tricks that you used on me," he sang, bobbing his head to the beat as he continued to sweep the crowd, and then he spotted Izzy off to the far left. She was in black--as usual--which made her easy to see amid all the garish color surrounding her, and she was dancing alone, also as usual since Mike never--

Whoa...

Izzy _wasn't_ alone. Not this time.

Dancing with her was another girl--a tall, slender girl in a short-skirted, sleeveless bright yellow dress--who captured his attention, her vibrancy outshining Izzy--outshining every other girl in the room--at least as far as _he_ was concerned.

He leaned sideways, trying to get a better look at her; she kept shying just out of sight, teasing him with fleeting glimpses of those long, gorgeous legs, of smooth skin that looked as pale and cool as fine porcelain. He wanted to see her face, darn it, and she wouldn't let him! No, she kept her back to him, which was almost as bad because he could see the thick mass of auburn curls tumbling across her shoulders, drawing him like a moth to a flame, making him want to twine those ringlets around his fingers to see if they were as soft as they looked.

And then she executed a graceful little shimmy, a writhing of hips and torso that just about made him drop his drumsticks. As it was, he stuttered on the next line, making Peter and Davy shoot him questioning looks while Mike--oddly enough--started smiling like a Cheshire cat.

It was cat-and-mouse for the rest of the set, making his frustration build until he could barely sit still. He kept trying to get a good look at her, and she kept disappearing, and then he fretted that she'd left the club before he got a chance to meet her--only to see her pop up again, and always with Izzy. _Who was she_? he wondered. One of Izzy's co-workers? If that were the case, he'd definitely have to visit her at work more often! To his annoyance, other guys noticed the Mystery Girl too and tried to get her to dance with them, but she always turned them down, and if they didn't get the hint, Izzy transformed into a fiesty little guardian, flashing her temper at them enough to give them an unmistakable "back off" message.

Hhm. Did that mean _he_ couldn't make any moves on her either? Did she already have a boyfriend? Or a date who was--like Izzy's--not much of a dancer? He swiftly checked out the tables once more, but all the young men who were sitting down had someone with them. Maybe the guy was in the bathroom or something...

"Micky--"

Or maybe she was just getting over someone and Izzy had brought her out to have a good time without a guy...

"Micky--"

But surely it wouldn't hurt to introduce himself...!

" _Micky_!"

The combination of Mike, Peter and Davy's voices all aimed at him finally shattered his reverie enough to realize he'd allowed himself to wander off mentally during the set.

"Huh?" He glanced up at them, momentarily bewildered. What was he supposed to be doing that he wasn't?

"It's your turn," Davy hissed, scowling fiercely as if he were more than a little irritated at his friend's carelessness. "'Mary, Mary'--get it together, man!"

But was that a wink Micky saw passing between Davy and Mike as Davy turned around to face front again? Did he imagine it, or did Peter just give them both a thumbs'-up?

Fortunately, "Mary, Mary" was the last tune in the set, and he couldn't get through it fast enough. His insides knotted with impatience as he ploughed through the lyrics with none of his usual emoting; he just wanted to get through it and get off the stupid stage so he could track down that girl and find out what she looked like and who she was!

Mike had barely gotten through his usual "Thanks, we'll be back in about half an hour" set-ending speech before Micky threw down his sticks and bolted off, leaving them standing there, watching him gallop away; he was vaguely aware of Davy's laughter following him as he dashed into the dispersing crowd, but he didn't pause to consider what that was about. His complete focus was on finding the girl in the yellow dress--and he didn't have far to look.

Izzy was leading her to a nearby empty table, and he stopped dead in his tracks, mesmerized by the sway of Red's hips in that tight little dress, the shape of her legs in those matching yellow shoes making his throat dry up until he worried he wouldn't be able to speak once he finally got her attention.

Once they were both settled, he cleared his throat and gave a rippling shrug of his shoulders as he called up every last bit of charm he possessed, preparing to pour it all at the feet of this lovely girl. Forcing himself to act far calmer than he actually felt, he sauntered over to the table they'd chosen, smiling his most winning smile as he greeted Izzy cheerfully.

"Hey, Iz!" he called, waving to her as he moved to stand between her chair and Red's, staring down at the Mystery Girl, who kept her gaze focused on her hands which were folded neatly in her lap, a familiar gesture that he couldn't quite place at the moment. "Who's your friend?"

"Why, I'm fine, Micky," Izzy replied blandly as she looked up at him, teasing laughter in her voice. "Thanks for asking. Yes, I had a lovely day. Glad to know you care."

He felt a warm, dull heat creeping into his cheeks. Okay, so maybe that hadn't been the most subtle approach, but there was something about this girl...

"Besides," Izzy continued, her lips twitching as if she were having to bite back a smile. "You've already met."

"Oh, c'mon--" he scoffed. "I think I'd remember--"

Red glanced up then, vivid green eyes suddenly meeting his, and he froze, his lower jaw scraping the floor as he stared straight into the face of Magdalene Bennett.

"Miss Prim!" he exclaimed, blurting out the nickname he used whenever he thought of her--which wasn't often!--before he could censor himself. "I--I mean--Mags--!"

But the damage was already done; he could see the blood staining her cheeks and neck, turning her fair skin almost as bright red as her flaming auburn hair.

"Y-you look...different," he concluded lamely, for once at a total loss for something to say.

He'd been having naughty thoughts about Magdalene Bennett! His brain was threating to shut down at the very idea!

"We've made a few changes," Izzy interjected smoothly, her expression clearly revealing she wasn't pleased by his behavior at all.

"So I see."

He stared at her, unable to wrap his mind around the image he carried of her with this new and admittedly pretty young woman sitting before him now. The two pictures just did _not_ go together! Mags was a plain, dowdy, boring woman, but now--now--that dress--!

By that time, the others had joined them, and Davy whistled appreciatively when he saw Mags, smiling his approval. "Lookin' good, babe," he told her enthusiastically.

"And you were dancing really good, too," Peter assured her, flashing his dimpled smile.

"Speakin of that," Mike said, holding out one hand to Izzy. "Sounds like a good idea."

Four sets of eyes snapped to him, all wide with shock; four jaws dropped in mute amazement.

"Why don't we _all_ give it a try?" he added, a clear note of command underlying his tone that couldn't be ignored.

Isabel slipped her hand into his as she rose to her feet and let him lead her out to the dance floor, smiling slightly and shaking her head as if she couldn't quite believe what was happening. His timing was fortunate--the jukebox was playing a slow number--and he kept their moves simple, which didn't surprise Micky in the least. Peter and Davy weren't long in locating willing partners, and they were soon out there as well, leaving Micky and Mags alone at the table. 

Micky knew what they were doing--issuing a not-so-subtle hint for him to dance with her--but what he didn't understand was _why_. A mercy dance, perhaps? But if that were the case, why couldn't Davy have done it? He seemed to be taken by her changed appearance, so why hadn't _he_ asked her to dance instead of dumping the job in Micky's lap?

Sighing, he shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, debating if he wanted to shoulder the burden and ask her or weasel out of it somehow. Granted, she was good-looking now that she wasn't hiding under those awful suits... _really_ good-looking, he amended silently, taking in her willowy figure...But that didn't change her personality, which was completely opposite his own, and he wasn't interested in sober-sided misses whose idea of a good time probably included curling up with a book and a cup of Ovaltine. She had no sense of humor, no sense of fun--she was _boring_!

Suddenly Magdalene rose gracefully to her feet, fixing him with a somber look as she faced him, the added height her shoes gave making her almost as tall as he was. Startled, he glanced straight into her eyes--and saw the hurt lurking deep in those dark green depths although no trace of it showed on her face.

"Tell you what," she said quietly. "Why don't I make this easy for both of us and just leave?"

"Aw, now wait--" he protested, suddenly awash with guilt. No, he didn't want to dance with her, but he hadn't meant to hurt her feelings.

"No." She waved one hand to silence him. "Don't say you're sorry and don't ask me to dance now. You don't mean it, and I'm not a charity case." She drew herself up, gathering her dignity around her like a mantle, and Micky felt himself shrinking until he was level with the roaches that they could never completely get rid of back at the Pad. "Despite what you may think," she added, twisting the knife in his conscience even deeper.

With that, she turned and walked out of the club without a single backwards glance, leaving him standing there, mired in guilt and confusion.

Judging from the looks on his friends' faces--even Peter's--as they glared daggers at him from the dance floor, he was going to be on the receiving end of four different lectures about his thoughtless behavior, and he would listen quietly, knowing he deserved it. He may not be interested in Miss Prim, but that wasn't any reason for him to insult her in public.

But that wasn't what was bugging him the most. No, what bothered him now was the vague sense of unease he felt as he watched her leave, the strange sensation that he'd just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

The door of the club slammed shut behind Miss Magdalene Bennett, and for one wild instant, it was all Micky could do not to run after her, to try to bring her back.

But he didn't, and the moment passed, never to return again.


End file.
